Child of the Wilderness
by Anime WarriorSkye
Summary: Based on 2004 movie musical. Suppose Erik and Christine did make love and a child came out of it. Seven years later, father and daughter are reunited in a chance encounter. Will this masquerade have a happy ending? First POTO fic.
1. Encounter

Skye: Yeah, I'm a slacker and get too many ideas. But this was stuck in my head, and I had to get it out.

Disclaimer: Laughing my ass off at those fools who actually think I have enough to buy the rights to Phantom of the Opera. The only things I own are characters of my own creation.

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"_**The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. 'Where shall I begin, please, your majesty?' he asked. 'Begin at the beginning' the King said gravely, 'and go on till you come to the end: then stop. '"**_

_**-"Alice in Wonderland", Lewis Carroll**_

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I knew the man who my mother had married was never my daddy. Vicomte de Chagny, Raoul, the man of the house I had known since birth, shared nothing with me at all. We did not look alike and we didn't act alike, either. He went out of his way to be outgoing and well-muscled; from the time of birth, I inherited my mother's traits, shy and small-boned. I still think that's why my mother, Christine Daae, daughter of the Swedish violinist Gustav Daae, named me Bird when I was born.

I shared a mother, though. I had a brother, a year younger than me. Father named him Hugo, and he received the charmed life they denied me. They pampered, pardoned, and treated him like the position of little prince he held in society. My station immediately resigned me to the life of a servant, a scullery maid for his household. The servants took pity on me and tried to make things easier, but difficulties persisted every waking moment, seeing as my brother took all available opportunities to ensure my existence miserable.

Contrary to what it seemed, my adopted father had always been and remained, a horrible man. He would fly into terrible rages, and most often, I got hit. My mother had given up trying to protect me from his ravages, and I rarely saw her anymore. The only person who truly cared within the house was Cook.

I was put into Cook's care at the tender age of two subsequent to the accident that happened. My father arrived home in one of his moods once upon a night and ended up slashing the right side of my face with a sword. Since then, I had to apply makeup every day so no one would see the scars and my father's reputation would be ruined.

No doubt pervaded my mind about the fact that Cook loved me. She took me to see my mother's friends, Madame Giry and her daughter, Meg, the only other two people who undertook an active part in my life, whenever she could. They taught me to read and write, and slipped books to me every chance they had.

I had one dress, a dark grey, ragged, simple, shift which came down to my knees. Like me, it was plain and filthy. Once a year did Cook force me to lie in the scalding hot water and rub my back with thick lye soap. She cut my dark brown hair short, straight, and jagged for that purpose. The distinguished Vicomte would never dream of wasting his precious water on a child of wedlock.

Cook was a stout, jolly woman, wisps of light brown hair poking out of her bun as she went to work. Her green eyes were weary, yet at the same time merry. She took pleasure in as being spicy as her sauces and seemed forever ready to share a kind word and a good joke. She coined my nickname, 'Birdie', and following, all the servants called me that. She raised me the best she could, and our bond was intense. One night when she was sick with fever, I stayed up the entire time reading to her until she fell asleep. She knew everything about me, and she was the one who told me that my father was not my real father.

She informed me all about my mother's affair before she was reunited with my father. "Aye never knew more than Aye said to you" she said to me, "but Aye know your father did great things, and so will you."

My true father, the Angel of Music, they christened him. Cook, keeping in tradition with my grandfather, had spun the Scandinavian fairy tales and the one about the angel of music. She had also enlightened me with the bit of knowledge about my actual father that she was aware of.

"But of course, when you meet him, he'll be able to tell you the rest himself." Cook was firmly convinced that I would meet my father someday and that he lived nearby. I had my doubts.

Finally, the day came when I met him. And it started off rather sadly.

It was a blustery winter morning when Cook awoke me from under my quilt in the loft. "Time to get up, Birdie. Aye expect they'll want breakfast soon."

Yawning, I rubbed my bloodshot bluish-gray eyes and complied. Pulling my dress over my head, I set a pot on the stove to bubble for my brother's porridge, taking care to put in extra for my breakfast later. One by one, the other cooks joined us, heaping trays of breakfast food waiting for the maids to bring them up to the rest of my estranged family. I could picture my brother's pudgy red face clearly in my mind as I ladled a bowl of porridge, sprinkling cinnamon and sugar on top, and then adding a few raspberries for a garnish. One had to use fruit sparingly in the winter months; we would have no completely fresh fruit until spring and summer.

Aimee, one of the maids, notified us when the master and mistress of the house were done and we all sat down to eat. Many of the others talked and joked; I listlessly stirred my spoon in my bowl over and over again, watching its progress.

Cook nudged me in the side "You're too young to look old. Be more cheerful, Birdie; Aye have a good feeling about this day. It will change your life, Aye believe."

"Really?"

"Indeed." She relaxed, "This will be the day that something happens."

After completing my chores for the morning, I went back up to the loft I had over the kitchen and picked up my worn copy of my favorite book, 'Alice in Wonderland'. It was the first book I had ever read, and I had reread it so many times, I could recite at least the opening five chapters by heart.

I climbed down the stairs "Cook, I'm going out."

"Where?" She glanced up from scrubbing a pot.

"To my grandfather's crypt."

"All right. There is enough time ahead of the lunch rush."

I ran out of the house. I had no cloak. Cook couldn't afford it, and money was not squandered on me by my parents.

The cold winter wind tore at my bare legs, no sun to ease it. In about ten minute's time, I arrived at the cemetery, clutching my book close to my chest as I struggled towards the crypt. Much effort finally rewarded me and I progressed to the tomb.

"Hello, Grandfather Gustav." I sat down, my book in my lap. "How are things going for you?"

I couldn't help but ask, "It has been a long winter, and still no sign of the angel of music you promised to send. If it went to Mother, why not me? Affairs at home are unbearable as is. "

I inhaled a deep breath "Hugo is growing up even more like Father every day. And every day, Father grows more and more discontent with me in his house. It will not be long until he tires of me and expels me for good."

Suddenly, a wave of fatigue overcame me. I felt so sleepy and too lethargic to go back to my quilt in the loft. I curled up in front of the steps, using 'Alice in Wonderland' as a pillow. I drifted off into dreamland, so warm…

"Wake, child."

My eyelids fluttered fuzzily.

"I said, wake."

I stirred again, more pronounced this time.

"Good."

My eyes opened and confusion immediately struck me. Someone had wrapped me in a giant fur robe and a hot water bottle nestled in the bottom fold, radiating warmth to my cold feet. I was on a carriage seat and we were trundling busily over the road. But what perplexed me the most was the man seated on the only other seat across from me.

He wore a black suit with a matching cravat, burgundy vest, and white collar, a top hat resting on the bench beside him. He had short and dark hair like mine, but slicked back against his head. A white mask covered the right half of his face and his grey-blue eyes that were so much like mine held me in their gaze.

I wished I could duck my head under the pelt, but that would be rude. Besides, his stare did not frighten me. It was curious and tender, the way one might examine a china doll made of the finest porcelain money could buy.

We stared at each other a few moments before I gulped and plucked up the courage to speak. "Are you the angel of music?"

"I am." A rich baritone resonated in a gently inquisitive manner. I knew I just heard the voice of an angel and the fact that my father lived up to his legend sent chills down my spine. "And that would make you my daughter, correct?"

"Yes." I could only get that out, and it shot down the little confidence I had, sneering how I was such a child, and did not even look my seven years.

"What on earth were you doing out there? You would have frozen to death if I had not been passing by and seen you." The stern tone and expression reminded me of what Cook would have said. I flinched.

"I was visiting my grandfather's grave, monsieur." I dared not to peek at his face, stolidly appearing fascinated with the furs. All of a sudden, I remembered. In alarm, I pushed the blanket aside, "My book!"

"Is right here." He held up a bundle wrapped in a black coat that I assumed was his. Grasping it from his outstretched hand, I unwrapped it partway to reassure myself and hugged book and bundle to my chest. "Thank you, monsieur."

"You are quite attached to that book" he mused.

"'Alice in Wonderland' was the first book I learned to read and write about." Stunned, I covered my mouth. My lessons from Madame Giry were to be kept a secret for if my father found out, he would be terribly furious, being of the school of thought that novels and education gave young women notions.

An amused smirk crossed his face. "Whatever notions in that book you may have gained are quite harmless and might work in your favor."

"Which ones?" I tilted my head.

"A sense of humor which the Vicomte lacks." He frowned, "Yet explain to me this. How can he educate his staff without seeing their domestic needs are met?"

I bowed my head, feeling tears at the corners of my eyes, being in this fine gentlemen who was my indisputable father's stagecoach in my only, dirty dress and roughly hewn wooden clogs. Cook had remarked previous to this that it was a wonder I didn't get splinters. But it was all that my blood family would waste on me.

A single tear escaped my eye and trickled down my face, escaping my notice. However, it did not escape my father's. An ebony leather-gloved hand cupped my cheek, pressing my chin up. "There, now" he said in a comforting voice, thumb brushing away more tears that were threatening to fall, "The criticism is not aimed at you. It is the Vicomte who is at fault. Here—" he drew aside the curtain for the horse and carriage's tiny window, "my home is just ahead. I will see to it that you are cared for there."

In that moment, I understood just how different it was to have a father. And not some cheap imitation, the genuine article who actually enjoyed my company. It was the most wonderful emotion I'd ever had in my life.

My reverie abruptly ended as the coach jerked to a stop. My father withdrew 'Alice in Wonderland' from the folds of his cape and handed it to me. He knelt, wrapping me in it and then picked up book, mantle, and me all in one swoop. Within my mind, I gasped, clinging to his arm as he swept me up.

Discontent crossed his face, "I have not asked you your name yet. I apologize; that was terribly rude of me. Tell me, what is it?"

"Bird."

"Bird." He tested it the sensation of it on his tongue, pausing meditatively halfway onto the ground. "It fits." The same half smirk, half smile revealed itself again as he progressed toward the large doorway.

Through the doors, a gigantic mahogany staircase could be viewed. My father's shoes clacked on the granite floor as he came in, setting me down. I gaped. It was far more grand than my adopted father's home.

"The gentlemen who owned this house hurried to get rid of it and seemed delighted when I offered. Apparently, a ghost haunted it." My father laughed dryly, "Strange what fear will do to a man, isn't it, little bird?"

I nodded. The pet name immediately had grown on me, and I would be perfectly content to continue coming here.

"Well, then." He squeezed my shoulder companionably. "The first thing you need is a bath."

I sniffed the sleeve of my dress and wrinkled my nose. There was no case to argue for that.

A maid appeared. "Shall I help her, monsieur?"

"Yes. Thank you, Brigitte. See to it as well that her clothes are washed and she gets some decent ones as well."

"Yes, monsieur." Brigitte smiled, tucking back a strand of brunette hair and grabbing my hand, tugging me towards a corridor. I followed somewhat reluctantly.

"Ah! Those shoes!" she commented, when we were halfway down. "Is the Vicomte really that Spartan with seeing to his servants?"

"That and then some for me."

She showed no surprise, "I knew you were Master's daughter the moment I saw you. It's no wonder he treats you so. Doesn't like to be reminded his Christine was with a man before he. Ah, but he will be so happy now!"

"He knew?"

Brigitte affirmed, "They tried to hush up that announcement in the paper seven years ago, but Master caught wind of it before the news even went to press. He ached for you so badly, I think it broke his heart even more than Christine. Master truly loves you, Lady Bird, and don't ever forget it. He wanted so much for you to live in this house."

"I do like it here." We arrived at a door that was one of many that had come before.

"I am glad. And now it is time for you to bathe." She opened the door. The floor was carved out into an enormous basin, filled with warm water. "In, if you please."

I removed my clothes and stepped down hesitantly. It was not deep where I was, but deeper as it went on. Brigitte picked up my garments, "These will be washed. And you shall have a new set of attire and shoes; Master insists. But you will wear these out."

"All right." It was a strange sensation, having all these gifts lavished upon me, but it was a nice one, so I did not complain.

Brigitte handed me the soap and I scrubbed myself while she washed my hair. The water that started out clear was now coagulated and dirty. She ushered me out, wrapping me in a towel and yanking a lever. A great hole opened in the center and the water disappeared down it. She pushed it up and the hole closed.

To put it mildly, it impressed me. If allowed, I would have watched it all day. But Brigitte was anxious to present me to my father, so I could not. I picked from a rack of opera costumes a short forest green, long-sleeved dress with shiny gold trim on the hem and cuffs and a pair of soft tan leather boots that came up to my knees.

Brigitte clapped her hands in delight when I changed. "Oh, you are adorable!"

I smiled, "Thank you."

"Come, you will see your father now." She gripped my hand and led me out.

My head spun as we passed many more rooms, each with the door closed. A labyrinth had nothing on this.

Finally, we came to the last door. Brigitte stopped and I stumbled, unaware of her halt.

"Careful, Lady Bird." She let go of my hand, "Go inside. He is waiting for you there. I have chores still to do."

She departed. I swallowed and grasped the doorknob, turning it. The door swung open, and I entered.

The most intimidating thing about that room besides my father was the organ. It towered over me, a mutated piano swollen with pedals and keys and taps, blasting its victims with notes, rendering them helpless and devouring them as the keyboards opened to reveal a gaping maw.

"You look like a child of faerie." My father interrupted my imagination, which was a blessing. I don't think I could've gone near the dreaded organ if he hadn't.

He was pleased. I could tell by his face. On the other hand, the quandary of being near my father without coming close to the organ had taken over my train of thought and would not be coming back into the station of what I had chosen to don.

Carefully, I edged towards the bench, ready to run if it decided to rip out of the stone and snatch me with a pipe. He shook his head with a small chuckle and strode over to me, taking my hand. I timorously followed him to the dreaded terror, where he placed my hand on one of the pipes, his overtop of mine. My eyes focused on his hand.

After a few minutes, he withdrew his hand and stepped back. The organ did not spring to life and eat me; it sat there, now unintimidating and mundane.

My father went back to his place on the organ's bench and beckoned. I came willingly.

"Can you sing?" he asked, fingers curled upon the keys.

"A bit. No one ever asked me to sing for them before."

"Then do so for me." I sang a bit of what I knew from the operas my mother had sung at. He listened, tapping his foot in time with the rhythm, never breaking eye contact. "Not bad. Now, let me show you a few things to make it better."

And that was how I received my first opera lesson. Time passed in the funny old way it does and by the time we realized how late it was, I had learned much more from my father in one day than what my brother's tutor could teach in a week.

"It seems I kept you later than intended to." He scowled at the clock as the time upon it struck. "We shall have to ensure these visits continue on a daily basis."

Panic flooded my senses. Leave? Now?

"There is no need to be so alarmed, little bird." My father stroked my cheek, instantly turning me into putty. "I will return you discreetly. But before you leave, Brigitte has something to show you."

Brigitte, by some mysterious way, knew the time of my departure neared and had stationed herself outside the door when I opened it. She took me into another room and showed me how to don a wooly black pair of what she called stockings and thick white socks of the same material.

"Master does not want you to freeze when you wait for him." She grimaced "Monsieur Vicomte will have to be taught a lesson!"

The carriage waited outside when we left. My father helped me in, and then climbed up himself. As we drove away, he draped his arm around my shoulders in a comforting gesture. I leaned against his left side, his cloak covering my body up to my neck.

His other hand clenched into a fist, we sat in silence the way home. I motioned to the driver to find the back driveway, which he did so with no problems. As usual, he helped me out and we trod through the snow to the back door of the kitchens.

Warm air rushed in as I opened the door. Cook hastened towards me, skirts and apron held up in one hand. "Oh, Birdie, thank goodness! _Mon Dieu_, I was so—oh!"

She stopped dead at the sight of my father in his top hat holding my hand. The other servants clustered behind her, curious to the strange gentleman who brought me home.

I smiled, holding the bundle containing my new clothes and book in one arm. "Cook, everyone...this is my father."

Mouth agape, she quickly curtsied, "Forgive me, monsieur—"

She was cut off again as he bowed, kissing her hand. "Erik Garnier. Your humble servant, madam."

Erik. Would my father ever stop pleasantly surprising me? Such luck had come upon me when my mother chose to release her virginity.

"I apologize for the scare. I found the poor child about to freeze to death and saw to it she recovered. I should have contacted you when she awoke. I trust you will not mind if she graces me with her presence each day at the same time she left. She will not be back this late again."

"Aye see no problem with that, monsieur." Cook regained her dignity. She gestured and Aimee relieved me of the parcel. "Aye have not seen Birdie this joyful in a long time. It will do her good."

"Now, then." She bustled over to the others, "Give them privacy. Supper is an hour away and the people upstairs get snippy if the food is not fresh."

My father knelt and embraced me. I hugged his neck fiercely, hoping to show how much he had done for me in the time of one afternoon.

He kissed my forehead, "Stay out of trouble and the way of those who rule you."

"I will."

He stood, straightening his hat. "I will see you tomorrow, little bird. Good evening."

Shyly, I spoke, "I look forward to it…_pere_."

He kissed the top of my head one more time and left, leaving me with a reason to anticipate the next day.

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Mon Dieu-mother of God

Pere-father

Please review and tell me how I did on my first POTO fic.


	2. The Music Box

Skye: Back again! Thank you for the kind reviews. I'm happy at least a few people liked this story. Some of you added me to your Favorites list; thank you, I'm extremely flattered. I hope you enjoy this next chapter, and if someone would be kind enough to inform me when I make Erik go OOC, I would appreciate it very much.

Many of you asked why Erik could not claim his daughter from Raoul, why our not-so-dear Vicomte has gone completely bananas and why Christine had so much trouble intervening. For this and other reasons, I will integrate a bit of Leroux, despite that my fic is based on the 2004 movie. Because of that, I will have to tailor some characters to suit my own needs. And Christine will be more involved within the story in due time; do not worry.

**Notes: There was a mistake in last chapter, Mon means not mother, it means my! Sorry for the mistake, French I did not take! Apologies to those of you who found my error to be quite a heinous crime! (Check out the rhythm pattern in this note and see if you find the hidden something. Oh, yes, and I have taken French since this was written. ) **

_French_

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"_**Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us." **_

_**-Oscar Wilde**_

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A week's time had passed since my first visit with my real father. _Pere_ had been teaching me regularly since that day, and his sessions gave me a reason to wake up the next morning. He had integrated schoolwork as well and found that I inherited his genius, easily flying through the most complicated works, then asking "Is that all?" It was a week of firsts for both of us, and they had not stopped coming. Frequently, we were amazed by each other and internally, ourselves. We were quite a pair.

No one close to or in the family had found out, although my mother did smile, brush some of my hair back from my face, and comment on how much happier I looked when I brought her the breakfast tray. I smiled in return. Hugo was too busy stuffing his face to notice, but my father frowned at her. She did not seem too remorseful about it when I left; she would not be punished for such a minor act. But then, the worst-case scenario happened. My father found out that I could read.

That day, Hugo was with his tutor in the study, receiving his Latin lesson. I had come in to dust and could hear them quite clearly, as they both ignored me.

Hugo's tutor was a thin, reedy man who always kept a handkerchief on his person to wipe his perspiring, balding brow. The latest of many schoolteachers come to teach the son of the great Vicomte, I sympathized with him and his predecessors. Hugo had the brain of a pistachio, the patience of a rodent, and the temper of a fire. And above all, those were the polite terms used to describe his condition.

"Now, young master Hugo, if you would please read the following sentences." Pushing up his glasses, the instructor wiped his brow.

Hugo's face screwed up in concentration. It had already become a bright shade of pink, not a good way to begin a lesson. His sweaty hand clutched the quill.

"Lae…lae…" His whiny voice was an abomination to the ears. _Pere_ would have marched out the door with me in tow right now if he had heard this pathetic attempt at Latin.

"Laetatus," Monsieur Tutor prompted.

"Laetatus su…su…"

"Sum," he encouraged.

"Laetatus sum in…in…" His fat visage had turned a shade of tomato red. Angrily, he banged his hands upon the desk. "This is too hard! I don't want to do this anymore! You always have to make it hard for me! Why do I have to do it?"

"Now, young master Hugo," Monsieur Tutor quavered. "Let's not give up on it yet. Why don't we take a little recess and gather our thoughts, then try again?"

"Fine." Hugo stomped out, shoving me roughly as he passed and knocking my dusting rag to the floor. Monsieur Tutor knelt and handed it back to me, giving an understanding glance as he absconded.

Rubbing my shoulder, I picked up the workbook that Hugo had been wracking his brains over for the past five minutes. The sentences were not difficult, actually quite the opposite. A little Latin practice would not come amiss on my afternoon call. I read aloud in a firm, clear voice, projecting as _Pere_ had wished me to do.

"Laetatus sum in his quae dicta sunt mihi in domum Domini bimus. Fiat pax in virtute tua et abundantia in turibus tuis."

A sharp gasp caused me to drop the primer. My father stood in the doorway in angered disbelief. I trembled as his eyes swept over the scene and came to rest upon me.

"You," he hissed scathingly. His hand shot out and dug into my shoulder, almost yanking me off the ground, dragging me down the corridor. He threw me in front of my mother, Hugo, and the tutor when he reached the atrium.

"Look at what your daughter has done!" He shoved the text in front of my mother's face. "I caught her in there…reading." He spat out the last word disgustedly, as if a horrible taste had caught itself upon his tongue.

The fiery pain of my shoulder crippled my right side, my face wrenched in pain. My mother hesitantly moved from her seat to put her arms around me. Hugo stood there, a prideful smirk gracing his visage.

Monsieur Tutor cleared his throat several times and then spoke tentatively. "Monsieur Vicomte, if I may say something."

"Speak." His anger was more controlled.

"Thank you. The passage the little girl was reading was some of the most beautiful, fluent Latin I have ever heard. She said it as if it were her mother tongue. I see no problem with her becoming literate, if she does so that wonderfully."

"Women should not know how to read," my father scoffed. "It gives them notions. First the books, then talking politics, then comes the desire to wear trousers like men. Only men should learn, for they are capable of digesting such complex topics."

He left, "I shall think of a punishment for her later. Come, Hugo."

The simper remained on the face of my brother as he exited. My mother had tears in her eyes as she gathered me in her arms. "He means well, Birdie, you must understand. He has a lot on his plate as a patron and his title and sometimes it becomes too hard for him to cope with."

"Oh, dear." Monsieur Tutor dithered. "Such a sight, dear me, such a sight. In all my years of work, I have never seen such a spectacle."

The only thing that brought me cheer after I had come back to the kitchens was that I would visit _Pere _soon.

Earlier than usual, Cook dismissed me. "Your father planned to come early today; he didn't want me to spoil the surprise. It is hard for both of you, Aye suppose."

I hugged her and departed, but not before donning the woolen socks and stockings given to me on my first stopover. Assuming my usual place at my grandfather's crypt, we met and climbed into the carriage for the ride over.

I could sense that _Pere _knew something was wrong. He gave no hint, though, asking me how I fared in my studies. I answered him truthfully and we went back and forth like this for the rest of the ride.

Brigitte greeted me warmly at the door, "Ah, Lady Bird! So wonderful to have someone in the house who actually makes noise."

_Pere_ pretended to huff indignantly. "I was thinking about how nice it would be to have a maid that never complained or took pride in being a busybody."

"See!" She brandished her feather duster at him. "See how he insults me! Lady Bird, surely you exert some control over him!"

I shook my head, stifling my giggles.

"Ah, well." Brigitte smiled. "At least the pay is good and both of you make it worth my while." She clapped me on the shoulder, squeezing it.

That was when everything came out. I shrieked, crumpling to the ground as the blistering pain crippled me again.

Immediately, their playful teasing changed to intense concern. Brigitte dropped her feather duster and knelt, "Lady Bird, what's wrong?"

_Pere _frowned, gently pulling back the material of my dress to reveal the handprint and other assorted red marks. "Witch hazel, I think, and bandages. Brigitte?"

"Right away, monsieur." She exited immediately.

He carefully turned me so I was lying on my left side and picked me up delicately, as if I were china. My nose was pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt as he entered a side room and set me down on the bed.

Momentarily forgetting my pain, I stared wide-eyed at the room. I had never been in a bedroom this spacious. Brigitte laughed weakly, "If you think this is big, you should see your father's bedroom."

She handed the tub of ointment and bandages to my father, "I assume you will want to treat her."

He nodded, "Kindly divert her attention if you please."

The witch hazel stung, but the flow of the pain began to ebb as I talked and joked with Brigitte. _Pere _was too busy bandaging my arm to talk and besides, I could see the troubled, thoughtful expression on his face.

After he finished, I rubbed my arm out of habit. The arm was fine and I suddenly felt extremely drained of all my energy. Tired, I lay down on my left side again. Brigitte nodded to _Pere _and went away.

His hand gently stroked the small of my back, never deviating from the same trail. A few minutes passed and he spoke, "You know I care for you, correct?"

"Mm-hm." I would be lying if I said I was not afraid of my father at that point. I never really stopped being afraid of him. He and I loved each other dearly and he would rather die than harm me, but he scared me enough into being good.

"And you feel the same?"

"Of course I do." My voice wobbled a bit. Slowly but surely, he was working his magic.

He then shifted me so I was lying on my back, rendering it impossible for my eyes to avoid his. "Little bird, I love you deeply and I know you understand that. But we have a problem."

_Pere_ drew me onto his lap, "I never allow those precious to me to be hurt and after the rare occurrences when it happens, I take vengeance on the perpetrators to ensure their safety." His soft gaze penetrated the hard outer shell I had tried to develop. "But I cannot help you if you do not willingly aid me."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. My hunched shoulders shook with the weight of emotion I felt.

"I will ask you once, and if you do not wish to talk, just nod or shake your head." The gentle tone reminded me of how Cook used to speak to me when I was upset as a child. In my father's mind, obviously, I was still a frightened child whom he needed to be patient with. "Did the Vicomte injure you?"

"Yes." I met his stare, terribly panicked I would suffer punishment. But he clearly had no intention of carrying out such awful affairs when he embraced me. Lifting me once again, he strode down the hallway, I carefully cradled against his chest.

"No schoolwork today for you." he stated firmly as we came into the music room. "I am not sure that having your music lessons is best right now, either."

I gazed upon him as if he had told me to kill Cook and he laughed lightly. "You truly have my blood in your veins. Just music today."

A soft tinkling drifted from a corner, causing my father to set me down and walk in that direction. "Have to remember to shut that stupid contraption," he muttered, clearly vexed.

I followed him to see what the 'stupid contraption' was. A red fez-capped monkey wearing a matching gold-trimmed jacket and gold slippers sat cross-legged on top of a mahogany box clapping together a pair of cymbals as a rather pretty melody played. Its wise brown eyes seemed to twinkle with delight as the music went on.

"It's beautiful," I said reverently, inwardly sighing as my father shut the lid.

"It's yours." His palm rested on his forehead. "I really have no need for it anymore. The song, though, I know quite well."

"Is it one of yours?"

He nodded.

"Can you teach it to me? Please?"

"Very well. It is a favorite of mine, anyway, and I think you'll enjoy it. I shall go through it once for you. "

The introduction was fast-paced and joyous, but with an undertone of foreboding that lasted throughout the whole piece. He began to sing, fully taking pleasure in expressing the music, "Masquerade! Paper faces on parade! Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you—"

And that was how I learned my first song written by my father. 'Masquerade' never left my life; I sang it millions of times and still do today.

I arrived home with nothing else but the bandages under my dress and a lighter heart. If I had carried the music box in with me, something might have happened to it.

Cook smiled when I came in the doorway. "Glad you're back. Just in time for dinner."

The usual rush of preparing a meal accompanied my currently musical thoughts as I prepared the beef that was to be served at the table. Humming 'Masquerade' under my breath, I went about my duties. All seemed normal, Cook sending Aimee upstairs to serve the family in my place.

Later in the evening, I prepared a basin of water for my mother to wash her face in. She sat on the bed in her dressing gown, smiling as I brought it to her. "Thank you, Birdie." She reached out to stroke my hair, but drew back as she heard footsteps on the stairs. I quickly left, taking the steps of the servants' staircase two at a time.

Crawling up the ladder to the loft, I curled under my blanket to sleep. I lay still and soon drifted off. Somewhere near daylight, a faint tinkling reached my ears. I awoke to see my father's music box sitting open on my nightstand. As the grey light of morning came, I watched the monkey play its cymbals and smile.

To this day, I still have no idea how it got there and my father refuses to tell me anything about it.

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